"It's not that big," he says. "Only nine thousand square feet."
"Practically an efficiency apartment," I say, deadpan.
"Eleven thousand if you count the guest house," he says, pointing to the smaller building that is connected to the main house by a covered walkway. "The caretaker and his wife live there. I told them this was a relaxing and informal week and to leave us to fend for ourselves."
"Sounds good. I'm all about relaxing."
"The property has a pool, a hot tub, an outdoor grill, and access to some of the county-maintained hiking trails. It also," he adds, with a devious grin, "has a number of very comfortable beds. Depending on the kind of relaxing you'd like to do."
"I'm big on variety," I say. "A bed . . . a hot tub . . . so long as I'm not relaxing by myself, I'll be a very happy girl."
"I do love the way you think." He kills the engine on the Jeep and turns in his seat to face me. "That's not the only reason we're here," he says seriously. "I thought about what you said. About reality catching us off guard. And I thought that it might be good for both of us to ease slowly back into the real world."
"We can go as slow as you want," I say. "You won't get any complaints from me." Then I remember my plans, and grimace. "Except that I have to be back in LA by ten Friday morning. That's when Lisa is going to show me the sublet."
"Fair enough. Friday marks our return to reality. A sad, mournful day."
"Don't even," I say. "You're going to fire up that Bluetooth headset and start cooking up some deal before we even get through that door, and you know it."
"I won't," he says with a familiar gleam in his eye. "I have plans for when we walk through that door."
"Do you? I bet I can guess what." And I have to confess that I'm looking forward to it. Where Damien is concerned, I'm always looking forward to it.
We get out of the car and walk over the wide wooden bridge to the massive front door. I hang back as Damien opens it, but the second I step over the threshold, I'm accosted by a very loud, very familiar scream--Jamie.
Behind her, a wide white banner hangs across the entrance hall and dozens of helium-filled balloons float and bump up at the ceiling. My eyes meet Damien's, and I realize that he is as surprised as I am.
"You didn't know?" I ask, as Jamie launches herself at me and wraps me up in a tight hug.
"About Jamie, yes," Damien says as Jamie shifts her hug from me to him. "I couldn't think of a better way to ease you back into reality than to bring Jamie out here. She's about as real as it gets."
I can't help but laugh in agreement, especially when Jamie sticks her tongue out at him.
"But the decorations? I didn't have a clue."
"Oh, please," Jamie says. "It's a celebration. Banners, balloons, food, drink." She turns her focus to me, her eyes as wide as if she'd just stepped into heaven. "This place is so well-stocked you wouldn't believe."
I cock my head toward Damien and grin wickedly. "It's Damien," I say. "Excess is an art form."
"Watch it," he says, then lightly smacks my bottom before hooking an arm around my waist and planting a bone-melting kiss on me right there in front of my best friend. "Fuck reality," he whispers when he releases me. "I want to stay in our bubble as long as we can."
Yes, I think as I press my back to his chest and hold on tight to the arms he has wrapped around me. So do I.
"And where exactly are we going?" Damien asks from the Jeep's passenger seat.
"It's a surprise," I say. "Now shut up before I kill us." I'm not used to driving so big a car, especially on narrow, winding roads, but the surprise Jamie and I cooked up would be much less of a surprise if we told Damien where we are going.
He eyes me suspiciously. "The good kind of surprise where I get to slowly strip you naked? Or a bad kind of surprise?"
"Oh. My. God," Jamie says from the backseat. "I'm going to just melt back here."
I bite back a grin and focus on Damien. "Does any surprise that doesn't end with me naked fall within your definition of bad?"
"Pretty much," he says, and in the rearview mirror, I see Jamie clamp her hands over her ears.
I laugh. "Then I guess we're deep in the land of horrible."
He leans back in the seat at an angle so that he can stretch his legs out and examine me. He twines his fingers behind his head. He looks relaxed as sin and sexy as hell. "All right," he says slowly. "Tell me."
"You tell him," I say to Jamie. "It was your idea."
"We found a bar in Crestline that has a karaoke night," she says.
"Did you?" he asks blandly.
Actually, Jamie found it, but I enthusiastically agreed to this night out. After the news he got on the plane, I am operating on the theory that the more fun the better. Or I was. Now, I'm not so sure. Because despite everything I have learned about Damien Stark, I cannot read his expression.
"Are you going to serenade me?" he asks.
"Nope."
"Are you going to serenade Jamie?"
"Double nope."
"I see," he says.
My grin falters a bit. Jamie and Ollie and I used to get a huge kick out of karaoke bars, and they were always a cure for a bad week. But Damien is not Jamie or Ollie or me, and considering his current stony expression, it's more than possible that I misjudged the appeal of this evening's entertainment.
I meet Jamie's eyes in the mirror and see her tiny shrug.
I am just about to announce that I was joking and that we are really on our way to a five-star restaurant where we'll discuss business theory and stock prices, when his mouth twitches and his eyes begin to light with his slowly growing smile. "And here I thought you loved me," he says.
I force myself not to sag with relief. "I do."
"And you thought that singing bad seventies songs in public would be a good way to show it?"
I pause at a stop sign, and take the opportunity to glare at him. "Are you mocking me, Mr. Stark?"
"Never," he says, but his eyes are dancing.
"Mmm. I was actually thinking along the lines of the Rat Pack oeuvre, but I'll go with bad seventies if that's what you want. I'm more than willing to compromise."
His expression is pure sin. "I'm very glad to hear it, Ms. Fairchild."
"There it is," Jamie says from the backseat. She is pointing to a brightly lit building just up the block. "That's it, and thank God. It's getting just a little too warm in here."
I bite back a retort. As far as I'm concerned, with Damien, it can never be too hot.
Whatever heat there might be in the Jeep, however, has nothing on the interior of the bar. It's cramped and smoky and so warm it feels sticky. And, frankly, that's part of its charm. I can see from Damien's approving expression as we walk through the wooden double doors and into the dark interior that he agrees.
"It's definitely got atmosphere," he says, his hand pressed lightly to my back as he scans the room.
"What about that table?" Jamie asks, and Damien and I follow her across the room to a four top near the stage. "Order me something fun," Jamie says, then disappears toward the ladies' room.
Karaoke night is already going strong, and as we get settled, a teddy bear of a man with a lumberjack beard belts out Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" with at least as much energy as Gloria herself ever put into it.
I slump a bit in my chair and press my hand over my mouth in sympathetic embarrassment.
Damien notices and laughs. "Not planning to jump up and burst out into song yourself?"
"No," I admit. "At the moment, I don't need the pain."
I can tell that Damien knows I'm teasing, but he still cocks his head and studies my face. I roll my eyes and take his hand, squeezing tight. "Sorry," I say. "I shouldn't joke about that."
"I don't mind the jokes," he says, "so long as you don't mind me second-guessing them to make sure there's no hidden agenda."
I turn my head away so that I do not have to meet his eyes. I can't help but think how close I came on the plane to bre
aking that damn glass and dragging the raw edge of the shard into the flesh of my thigh.
I didn't, though. And it is the fact that we are both aware of my victory that gives me the strength to turn and look back into his eyes, expecting to see reproach on his face. But all I see is love.
"I will always worry," he says gently. "There is no off switch, no pause button. You are the thing in this world that means the most to me, but we both know that I have come close to breaking you more than once. So get mad at me if you want, but don't tell me to stop being concerned or second-guessing you. I won't. I can't."
Slowly, I smile. "It's not about my pain," I say lightly, intent on refocusing our evening to its proper perspective. "It's about the pain of all these people were I to get up on this stage."
"Oh, but you're going to," he says, grinning wickedly.
"Um, no. No way."
"Mmm." He stands and eyes me for a moment, then nods. "All right," he says. "You don't have to get up on the stage."
I exhale in relief even as he bends to kiss my cheek, but then he walks away toward the guy who is emceeing this evening. A little finger of dread shoots up my spine as I see the emcee's eyes widen in recognition. Then he nods and starts to type something into his machine as Damien takes the stage. My chest tightens, and suddenly I'm having a little trouble breathing. Damien, however, doesn't look nervous at all. He's standing there in front of the screen upon which some lyrics will begin to flash, the lights from above shining down on him. He's wearing jeans and a casual linen shirt, and I can't help but think that he's the sexiest man in this bar. And he's all mine.
He taps the mic, and a soft pop reverberates through the room, making me jump. I shift in my seat and see Jamie hurrying over, her eyes as wide as mine feel.
On stage, Damien focuses on the crowd, looking as cool and confident as if he were in his own office about to give a presentation to a client. "I'd planned on doing Elton John and Kiki Dee's "Don't Go Breaking My Heart," but I'm having a little trouble working out the logistics of a duet." I feel the eyes of the pub's patrons as they turn to look at me. I'm not hard to find, especially considering Jamie's hoot of laughter and then her fingers aimed shotgun-style in my direction. I cup my hand over my forehead and duck my head to hide my blush, not certain if I'm amused at Damien or desperately pissed off.
Then again, I got myself into this mess. It may have been Jamie's idea to start out with, but I adopted it fully. I should have known he'd find a way to turn it around to his full advantage.
I draw in a breath, drop my hand, and lean back in my chair as Damien continues speaking.
"So I'm going to go with a serenade." He looks right at me. "For you, baby."
I brush away the tears that have welled and give him a shaky, happy smile. The music starts, and I'm enough of a fan of big band music and the Rat Pack that I recognize the song right away. The tears that I'd brushed away return immediately as Damien begins to croon the lyrics to Dean Martin's "You're Nobody Until Somebody Loves You". It's not a perfect voice, but it's strong and on-key, and he has captured the audience.
Then he's stepping off the stage, the mic in hand, and coming to our table, his voice filling the place, even rising above the claps and catcalls from the patrons who are loving every second of this spectacle. Half of them are holding up smartphones, and I'm certain that this will be all over the Internet by tomorrow, but when Damien reaches his hand out for me, I suddenly don't care. I take it, the world falling away. He's casting a spell over me, and for a brief, wild second, I think that Sinatra's "Witchcraft" would be more appropriate, because I am completely enchanted.
I'm not sure how it happens, but suddenly I'm standing up, and Damien's eyes are fixed upon mine, and everyone else in this pub has been swept away. It is only Damien and the music and me. He's singing as if he means it, and as the famous lyrics come out of his mouth, I melt.
Then it's over and I'm crying and the crowd is applauding. Damien's arms close around me and I'm vaguely aware of the applause and the camera flashes and the cheering. None of that matters, though. All that matters is Damien.
Beside us, I see Jamie smiling tremulously, her eyes wistful but happy. He's a keeper, she mouths.
I nod in reply and cling tight to Damien. I know, I think. I know.
Chapter Twelve
It's late when we get back from the bar, but the cool night air and Damien's terraced stone patio are too enticing to resist. It looks out over a manicured lawn leading down to a private dock and the smooth surface of the lake. The sky is clear and the moon is full. It reflects off the sails and hulls of the various boats dotting the shore, adding a wash of muted color to what would otherwise be a gray tableau.
Jamie immediately flops down on the huge daybed. The waitress had suggested flavored vodka in response to Jamie's query as to what would be fun, and now she is in a whipped cream vodka induced fog. I glance at Damien, then head into the house to get sparkling waters for all of us. When I return, Jamie's humming "Come Josephine, In My Flying Machine" and staring up at the stars as Damien looks on, bemused, from where he sits on the nearby love seat.
I meet Damien's eyes. "She loves Titanic," I say, by way of explanation.
"I hope this doesn't mean you're drowning," he says to Jamie.
She just smiles and slowly shakes her head back and forth. "No, I'm in a happy place. This is so nice. Y'all are so nice." She pushes herself up on her elbows. "Maybe we should go clubbing."
"Great idea," Damien says, as I gape. "But I've got a better one. How about we stay in?"
She cocks a finger at him. "Yes. Yes." She looks at me. "He's so smart. And gorgeous, too," she adds in the world's loudest stage whisper.
"I know," I say, half-embarrassed for my friend and half-amused by her.
She squints at Damien. "I bet I can totally whoop your ass at poker," she says.
Damien grins at me. "Who am I to decline a challenge like that?"
"She's good," I warn. She and Ollie and I spent a lot of long nights playing poker. "Of course she's better when she's sober."
Jamie's grin is lopsided. "Maybe I am sober. Maybe this is all just one big bluff."
After four hands of five card draw, it's starting to look like maybe Jamie really is sober. I'm losing spectacularly, Damien isn't doing much better, and Jamie has a huge pile of chips in front of her.
"You should know that all of my illusions are shattered," I tell him. "I don't know if I can stay with a man who loses at poker."
"But I do it with such charm," he says.
Jamie lifts her hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. "I'm just that awesome," she says. "Don't say that I didn't warn you."
Damien leans back on the small love seat that he and I are sharing, his feet kicked out in front of him and his cards face down on the small glass table. "You both do realize that poker is a game that develops over time. It's not about just a few hands."
Jamie and I exchange glances before she looks back at Damien. "In other words, you're sizing me up."
I raise my brows. "He better not be," I say archly.
We all laugh, but Jamie tosses down her cards, then flops backward onto the chaise. "Yeah, well, then the joke's on you, because I think I have to pass out now."
I wait, expecting her to say something else, but all I hear is a soft snore.
"Jamie?" I say stupidly.
"She's out," Damien says.
"It's the whipped cream vodka," I say. "That stuff's dangerous."
"Shall I move her inside?"
I consider getting a blanket and letting her sleep outside, but decide she'll be better off with a mattress and real sheets and no sun blasting on her face first thing in the morning. "Can you lift her?"
"She's tiny," he says. "I think I can manage." He picks her up easily, and she tilts toward him, curled up like a little girl against his chest. I hold the door open for him, and she wakes up just long enough to smile sleepily at him. I expect her to say something flirtatious and trademark Ja
mie. Instead, my heart squeezes when I hear her soft, "You're so good for her. You know that, right?"
"She's good for me," Damien replies, squeezing my heart a little bit more.
"That's what I mean," Jamie says--and then she's out again. Lost in her whipped cream haze.
I pause in the doorway before shutting her door, looking back fondly. As much of a wreck as Jamie can be, she's still my best friend, and it's times like this that I remember why.
"So tell me, Ms. Fairchild," Damien says as I follow him to the master suite. "How much whipped cream vodka did you have?"
"Too sweet for me," I admit. "But I ordered quite a few shots of Macallan."
"Did you? That can increase a bar tab pretty quickly."
I step close to him, relishing the way the air thickens with our proximity. "Well, maybe you can win it back at poker."
"That's an interesting wager," he says. "I propose a small amendment."
I cock my head. "Negotiating, Mr. Stark?"
"Always." He takes another step toward me. He's right there, so close that my breasts will brush against his chest if I do nothing more than take a deep breath. He leans forward until his lips are near my ear. We still do not touch, but his breath when he speaks sends shivers down my spine. "Strip poker, Ms. Fairchild."
The heat in his voice matches the fire in his eyes, and I start to melt a bit. But this opportunity is too delicious to squander and I match his gaze inch for inch, my lips curving into a smile when I see the bulge of his erection beneath his jeans. I lift my eyes slowly to meet his and find them smoldering. He cocks his head as if to say, oh, yes.
I swallow. "All right, Mr. Stark," I say, then turn and head toward our bedroom. I pause in the doorway and smile. "Prepare to get naked."
My threat, however, turns out to be hollow, and twenty minutes later I have lost my flip-flops, the light sweater I was wearing to ward off the chill from the lake, and my T-shirt. I'm left wearing a short pink skirt, a pale purple thong, and a matching demi-cup bra that is cut so low that my very erect nipples are straining against the decorative lace that lines the top of each minuscule cup.
Damien is still fully dressed.
"Are you sure you don't cheat?" I ask.
"As a rule, no. In order to see you naked, I would be sorely tempted."